


Everything That's Unfair

by onakissgodknows



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Roleswap, but I'm leaving it open for more, more characters will show up if I continue it, not sure if it'll go beyond a oneshot at this point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 03:44:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onakissgodknows/pseuds/onakissgodknows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is an art school dropout who’s dying to make the world better. Grantaire is a wealthy poli-sci student who couldn’t care less. They meet, and Grantaire makes an impression.</p><p>Based on these pieces of fan art by hawberries on tumbr:<br/>http://hawberries.tumblr.com/post/68163800676<br/>http://hawberries.tumblr.com/post/71521048042</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything That's Unfair

Enjolras tapped his charcoal pencil against his lips, wondering exactly how much trouble he’d be in if he scratched his name on the wall of the holding cell. Combeferre was taking his sweet time coming to pick him up. He had to find some way, some small act of rebellion, to amuse himself.

He glanced over his shoulder. The policemen had retreated to the front of the station, leaving Enjolras alone in the back. With a sigh, he flopped onto the bed, rolled onto his side, and began sketching a capital E on the cement wall. Before he could start the second letter, footsteps sounded behind him, and he shoved his pencil into the pocket of his sweatshirt and rolled back onto his back, hoping he looked just bored and unconcerned enough to really get under their skin.

The policeman had in tow a young man about Enjolras’s age, taller than him and dressed in clothes that looked so expensive they made Enjolras want to throw up. The man also looked incredibly drunk. The cop shoved him into the cell like he was eager to get rid of him and glared at Enjolras. “Play nice, okay?”

“Of course,” Enjolras said. “I should be out of your hair soon enough, anyway. Besides, it’s always nice to meet a fellow lawbreaker.” He gave the policeman a pleasant smile, and the policeman kept glaring like he suspected Enjolras was up to something. The man who’d just been brought in slumped against the wall, looking like he might pass out or throw up. Enjolras really hoped he did neither.

“Just keep quiet back here and wait for your ride home,” the policeman snarled at Enjolras, then turned and stalked back down the hallway. Some of the cops would probably happily let Enjolras rot in a cell for a while, but Enjolras was pretty sure most of them were just hoping he’d leave and they’d never see him again. As if that was ever an option. He’d been at the police station enough times that he was on first-name basis with a few of them. Unfortunately, none of them appeared to be on duty tonight.

Enjolras shifted his gaze to the drunk man now sitting with his head in his hands. “So what’d they get you for?”

“Drunk ‘n disorderly,” mumbled the man. Enjolras should have guessed. “You?”

Enjolras thought for a moment. “Call it an infringement on my right to free speech.”

The man let out a short, harsh laugh. “Whadja do?” he asked.  

Enjolras snorted. “I was spray painting on the side of a building downtown. They came along and tried to fine me for vandalism, so I told them exactly what I fucking thought of that, and next thing I know I’m here.”

The man laughed again, scratching his unshaven cheek. “You mouth off to the cops,” he slurred. “And you end up arrested. Hell. At least I’m not _surprised_ when public drunkenness gets me in trouble.”

“I never said I was surprised!” Enjolras snapped. The guy was starting to annoy him. “Anyway, what the hell were you doing getting wasted in those clothes?” The drunk guy was wearing a blue silk shirt, dress slacks, and leather shoes – immaculate other than a few traces of mud. “All that shit you’re wearing probably cost more than everything I own.”

He grunted derisively and looked Enjolras up and down. Enjolras was dressed in torn, paint-spattered jeans, a red sweatshirt he’d owned for about half his life, and sneakers that were barely holding themselves together. “Wouldn’ surprise me.”

The condescension with which the man looked at him made Enjolras’s blood boil. He was drunk off his ass, and he had the nerve to talk down to him? “Who are you, anyway?” Enjolras asked hotly.

“M’name’s Grantaire,” he said, looking as if he really wished Enjolras would just stop talking to him. “Who’re you?”

“Enjolras.” Enjolras folded his arms across his chest and looked at Grantaire with as much distaste as Grantaire looked at him with.

Grantaire smirked. “And what do you do, _Enjolras_?” He said Enjolras’s name carefully, elongating the first syllable. “Besides piss off cops.”

“I work two jobs and try to pay the rent,” Enjolras said. Grantaire made him feel very defensive, and he couldn’t quite figure out why. Maybe he was just his clothes – those were douchebag clothes. Who really needed a pair of three hundred dollar shoes, anyway, especially when there were people in this city who couldn’t even afford to spend twenty on shoes?

“You don’t go to college?” For the first time, Grantaire seemed surprised, even interested.

“I went to art school for awhile, but I dropped out.” Enjolras was still on the defensive. He’d had to explain his decision to so many people, and _everyone_ questioned him. They questioned him when he decided to go for an art degree, and questioned him when he decided to drop out. He practically had a speech prepared.

Grantaire turned his face away, smirking again. “’Course you did. Lemme guess – they didn’t understand you. They were stifling your creativity there. Molding you into the kind of artist you don’t want to be.”

Enjolras gaped at him. “Yes!”

“Think you’re a real special snowflake, doncha?” Grantaire laughed, shaking his head. “Wake up, kiddo. S’what school does to you.”

“I don’t see why I should be forced to change the way I – “

“Forced!” Grantaire interrupted, laughing again. “Not that you’d’ve done shit with an art degree, but they were trying to make you into somebody who can actually exist in society!”

“Society’s fucked. I shouldn’t have to conform to it.”

“Yeah, but you still have to live in it,” Grantaire said. “S’why I’m a poli-sci major.” He tapped the side of his forehead. “Useful. I’ll end up with a job after I graduate and you said – sorry, two jobs? Minimum wage? Best you’re gonna get with a high school diploma and a half-finished art degree.”

Enjolras snorted. “It’s clear all you care about is money. Though I weep for the future if you’re the kind of person who majors in political science.” Combeferre was a poli-sci major. Enjolras felt comforted by that fact, but then again, most things about Combeferre were comforting.

“If you don’t care about money, you’re an idiot.”

“You only care about it because you have it,” Enjolras shot back. “You’re probably coasting through school on daddy’s dime, aren’t you?” Grantaire didn’t answer, so Enjolras asked again. “ _Aren’t_ you?”

“How else do you expect me to do it?” Grantaire demanded.

“Some people actually work for what they’ve got!” Enjolras shouted, getting to his feet and standing over Grantaire. “You don’t look like you’ve worked a day in your life! I bet you hate it, too!”

“Yeah, I hate it!” Grantaire stood up as well and glared at Enjolras. He took a step closer and leaned close to his face. “But I have to do it!”

“Who says?” Enjolras snarled. “Why do you have to do it?”

“Because I’m expected to! And besides, poli-sci is more interesting than the other bullshit they offer. I’m gonna major in poli-sci, get a good job after I graduate, and live fucking happily ever after.”

“You are everything that’s wrong with society,” Enjolras snapped. “You’re obviously wealthy, you’re getting a degree you don’t care about at a school you don’t have to work for, and you’re going to get the highest paying job you can just so you can live comfortably and get drunk every weekend.”

“That’s the dream,” Grantaire snarled.

“And you dare to look down your nose at _me_?”

“At art school dropouts who think they’re edgy for badmouthing the cops and doing graffiti? Yeah. But don’t play the victim. You think you’re better than me, too.”

“I know I’m better than you.”

Grantaire straightened up and folded his arms. He was only an inch or two taller than Enjolras, but he had broad shoulders and muscular arms. Enjolras was sure if it came to a physical fight between them, Grantaire would have the upper hand. “You’re a judgmental little shit, you know that?”

Enjolras edged backwards a little. “Why should I waste my time on people like you? You’ve got all the money you need, you don’t need anyone’s help. Me, _I_ have things I need to accomplish. Don’t you care about the state of the world? Do you care about anything other than yourself?”

Grantaire gave him a twisted, humorless smile. “Sometimes I don’t think I even care about _that_ much.”

Now he was trying to get Enjolras’s pity. Enjolras scoffed and turned away. “You are pathetic.”

“So’re you. You think you’re going to change the world with half an art degree? Help the poor with the power of a paintbrush? The world doesn’t work that way.”

Enjolras stifled a laugh as he threw himself back onto the cot. “What would you know about the world, rich boy? Have you ever been to the other side of town, away from your college campus and the big fancy houses you people live in? Have you ever seen real poverty?” Idly he returned to the spot where he’d been writing his name on the wall. He pulled out his pencil and continued writing. “You don’t know how lucky you are, and the worst part is that you don’t care.”

“I don’t have to care. That’s what’s nice about idiots like you existing. Maybe if you believe in the goodness of man hard enough, you’ll actually make it real. Like when Peter Pan claps to keep Tinker Bell alive. It’s like that.”

Enjolras knew he was fighting a losing battle with this guy, but he couldn’t stop himself from arguing as he scratched the final “s” of his name onto the wall. “It’s that kind of cynicism that needs to go if there’s going to be any change,” he snapped. “Are you really content to be selfish forever?”

“Look,” Grantaire said. “I’m just trying to make it through life as painlessly as possible. Your radical little ideas aren’t worth the effort, because they’ll never make a difference anyway.” Grantaire snatched the pencil out of Enjolras’s hand and knelt on the cot next to him. With a slightly shaky hand, he scrawled a large capital “R” above Enjolras’s name before tossing the pencil back to him. “If you wanna believe in your fairy tales, _Enjolras_ , I’m not gonna stop you. Just don’t drag me into it.”

“Wouldn’t want you, anyway,” Enjolras muttered, standing up. He felt dirty, somehow, being near Grantaire. Everything he said disgusted him.

The policeman walked back down the hallway and glared at the two of them as he unlocked the door. “You,” he said to Enjolras. “You’re free to go.”

It was about time. Enjolras threw one last glare over his shoulder at Grantaire, then followed the officer out of the cell and to the front of the station. Combeferre was waiting there, leaning against the wall. He gave Enjolras a disparaging look when he saw him. “Next time you get arrested, could you not do it the night before I have a midterm?”

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras said sincerely. Combeferre’s studies were important to him, and even though Enjolras had decided school wasn’t the right route for himself, he would never want to jeopardize his friends’ educations. “Thank you for coming, I really appreciate it. I hope you still have time to study when we get back.”

Combeferre laughed as they walked out the door. “Don’t worry about it. Courfeyrac and I have been studying all day. A break is good. Even a break to come get you from the police station.”

It was raining, so Enjolras pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. If he didn’t, his hair would frizz and he would look like a yellow cotton ball the rest of the night. They dashed to Combeferre’s car and Combeferre looked at him pensively as they got in. “You look really mad.”

Enjolras heaved a sigh, frustration mixed with relief. He’d been hoping Combeferre would ask. “I just met the most _awful_ person.”

“In jail? Not surprised,” Combeferre said as they pulled out of the parking lot.

“He was this poli-sci major like you,” Enjolras said. “But he was awful, Combeferre. First of all, he was drunk, and he was rude, and he walked into that cell in a pair of shoes that I could probably sell and pay rent for a family of four for a month with, and the worst thing is he probably didn’t work at _all_ to get those shoes – “

“So you started in on him, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did! How could I not?” Combeferre knew Enjolras better than anyone did, but it was still hard not to smack him when Enjolras was this worked up and Combeferre was just sitting there smirking. “You’d have been pissed too if you heard the things he said to me! I mean, think about how hard you work to pay your way through school, think how hard _Feuilly_ works, and this Grantaire douchebag gets his parents to pay his way through getting a degree he doesn’t care about, just so he can get a job he’ll do the minimum amount of work for and get paid thousands of dollars more than he deserves! I can’t take it, Combeferre, it’s infuriating! And he wouldn’t listen to me!”

“He sounds terrible.”

Enjolras glared at him, frustrated. “Combeferre! You’re not listening either!”

“I am listening!” Combeferre protested, looking wounded.

“Good! He told me the things I believe in are fairy tales. He compared me to Peter Pan. _Peter Pan_ , Combeferre!” They pulled into the driveway of the small house they rented together, and Enjolras followed Combeferre up the stoop and into the house, talking all the while.

Enjolras scooped up his sketchbook from the coffee table and sat down on the couch in their living room while Combeferre returned to the heavy political science textbook he’d left on the armchair. Enjolras rifled through his sketchbook for a clean page. “He’s everything that’s unfair about the world. Why should he be the one with money? He’s never going to use it for anything good! He doesn’t care, he just doesn’t care at all, and I had to sit there and listen to him looking down on me for who I am – “ He was sketching without really looking at what he was doing, and talking without really thinking about what he was saying. “No one’s ever made me this angry! I hope I never have to – “

“This Grantaire guy,” Combeferre said without looking up from his textbook. “He wasn’t – uh – attractive at all, was he?”

Enjolras looked at him incredulously. “No! I hope I never see his face again! He was drunk, Combeferre.”

“What’s the correlation? A person could be attractive and drunk,” Combeferre pointed out. “Look at  Courfeyrac.”

“That’s Courfeyrac,” Enjolras said, frowning. “He’s sort of a freak of nature, in a perfectly charming way.” The chin he’d drawn was too pointed. He grabbed an eraser off the table and scrubbed out some of the lines, then re-sketched it in. Better. “If I ever see this guy again I swear to God, Combeferre, I’ll – “

“Argue him to death?” Combeferre smiled and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You don’t usually fight for lost causes.”

“No cause is completely lost,” Enjolras said stubbornly. He stabbed the page repeatedly with his pencil. Not very refined, but an easy enough way to draw stubble when he was this annoyed.

“But you usually know when best to pick your battles.”

“This is one that should be fought. This is about rich people thinking they don’t have to care because they’ve got all this money they can just – just – “

“Are you sure it’s not about this one, _specific_ rich person?” Combeferre asked.

Enjolras glared at him. “Very.”

Combeferre smirked. “What are you drawing there?”

Enjolras looked down at the page. He’d roughly sketched out a face – broad, blunt features, bags under the eyes, unshaven, dark curly hair. Grantaire. Enjolras’s face grew warm, and he closed the sketchbook. “Nothing. I’m going to bed.” He knew perfectly well he was too worked up to sleep, and he’d lay there in a rage for hours before he finally managed to get Grantaire out of his head.

“Good night.” Combeferre was still smirking when Enjolras left the room, sketchbook in hand just in case Combeferre tried to sneak a peek. Enjolras wouldn’t have him seeing his latest sketch.

Combeferre knew Enjolras perhaps a little _too_ well. 


End file.
